Magic and Mayhem: Harmony: A 'Not-Quite' Haunted Love Story (Kindle Worlds Novella) (The 'Not-Quite' Love Story Series Book 8)

by Julia Mills

  “Whatever you say,” she sing-songed, whooshing past me with a shit-eating grin on her face which made all the bells and whistles in my head start ringing. I knew the old bird was up to something. She hates being excluded, even if she has no clue what she’s being excluded from and she never agrees on anything the first time I suggest it.

  Opening my mouth to ask what she havoc she was about to wreak, I decided it would be a waste of time and breath, so instead I pointed at Ernesto who had his beak open and a gleam in his eye and threatened, “Don’t do it, you feathered freak. I haven’t stopped looking for a recipe for parrot tetrazzini.”

  Watching the bird clamp his beak shut and turn his back to me made me smile. I even whistled a little tune as I descended the steps and entered my office.

  “Hey there, Fes. You ready to do this?” I sat at my desk and opened my laptop.

  “Yes, but you don’t need your computer,” the donkey came to stand beside me. “We’re gonna use your cell phone.”

  “What?” I sat back and furrowed my brow. “Are you messin’ with me, donkey face?”

  “No, I am most certainly not.” The vegan mule shook his head at me then looked at the ceiling like he was counting to ten.

  “Give me a break, will ya’?” I grumbled. “I can’t help it if electronics refuse to work for me.”

  “If you would just have a little patience…”

  “Well, I don’t, so can we please get on with it?” I set my phone, Witches Rule case and all, on the desk and crossed my arms.

  I hate to admit that within two minutes, the grey butthead of a donkey had opened the bank app on my phone, signed into my account and shown me how to deposit a check into my account.

  “Do it, again,” I grinned. “I just can’t believe you know how to do all this,” I wiggled my fingers over the stack of checks. “Without going to the bank.”

  “There are all kinds of online classes. You should try a couple. They’re free.”

  “Yeah, that would be cool, if I wasn’t afraid the computer would blow up or change into a fire-breathing dragon and eat me,” I chuckled. (I know dragons don’t eat people. Some of my best friends are dragons. I just like messing with Festus.)

  Laughing along as he continued to put money into my account, Festus went on, “The teacher in my last money management course taught us all the ways to deposit and get money without ever leaving the comfort of your couch.”

  Then it hit me like a ton of bricks. Pushing up to the edge of my chair, I blurted out, “Wait a minute!” Sliding my glasses to the end of my nose, I frowned at my mule over the rims. (Yes, I am actually claiming him as mine ‘cause you can be damned sure the son of a gun isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.) “How do you type? You have no fingers.”

  “Duh,” Festus tapped the edge of his hoof on the desk next to my phone. “The same way I’m doing this. It’s called voice-to-text.”

  “But my computer doesn’t have a microphone.” I eyed him warily, waiting for the punchline.

  “Oh my God, were you born under a rock? Have you never watched a commercial or used Google for anything?” The exasperation was thick in his tone as he stopped what he was doing and stared at me. “I have Dragon.”

  “Wait one Goddess blessed minute, you have a dragon, and you didn’t tell me? You said I couldn’t have one because they were dangerous, which you know is total BS. Am I feeding it, too?” I screamed, slamming my palms down on the hardwood of my desk.

  “Don’t fall off your broom, crazy witch. I didn’t say a dragon, I said Dragon. It’s a computer program where I talk and it types,” he sucked his teeth with a totally disgusted look on his face that made the palm of my hand itch with the need to slap him sillier that he already was. “Just like the one in this little ‘talkie box’ you use.” He said the last part like he was speaking to an alien or worse yet, a moron, at which point I wondered how the old bastard would like to be a gecko. (But those little critters freak me out, so, instead, I glared back.)

  Waiting until Festus gave up on our staring contest, I decided to act like the last thirty seconds hadn’t happened. It was the only way I could be sure that nothing in my brain shorted out and that I didn’t have to come up with an alibi or a way to hide the body of a dead donkey. Better to keep what little marbles I have then have a pissing contest with a damned mule I wasn’t sure I could win. (Yes, that was hard to admit.)

  Pushing my glasses back up on the bridge of my nose. Ignoring Festus’ snickers, I turned back to my laptop and proceeded to order his smart aleck, vegan ass the specialty items from the Frou-Frou La Frou-Frou Gourmet market. (No that’s not the name of the store, but I like to say it. It pisses Festus off and that makes me laugh.)

  Thankfully, it wasn’t much longer until Festus left me alone and I got to spend the rest of the day putting my office back together. After that, I proceeded to order enough bird seed to keep Ernesto from rapping about the size, shape and grandeur of my behind and made sure Amazon delivered enough cans of tuna to last through the zombie apocalypse that Wendy had decided was happening on the twelfth of November. (Don’t ask. That chick’s little red wagon has lost more than a wheel. All I know is that her long, white fur was standing on end and her one-blue-eyed stare was nothing short of manic when she made this announcement as I was butt in the air, head under my couch, grabbing a geode that had rolled away during what I am now calling The Gangster Ghost Go-Back-to-Hell Game.)

  I had just hit the green GO TO YOUR CART key, surprised that I’d spent several hours on the computer without a meltdown or an explosion, when the scent of sandalwood and cinnamon filled my senses. Turning my chair, I couldn’t help but smile as Sam walked into the room. (Yes, he walked, and I know what you’re thinking…how strange. I agree. Every ghost I’ve ever known has flown or glided or wafted around never touching the floor, but not Sampson Merriweather. Nope, he walked everywhere, still put his hands in his pockets and opened doors instead of sliding through the wood.)

  My heart kinda did this little pitter-pat thing when he smiled back, the corner of his lips casually curling upward as he winked with a twinkle in his eye. Pushing my long-ignored libido back into her cage and reminding her that not only was Sam dead, but we were trying to help him crossover into Heaven, I asked, “Whatcha doin’, Lord Merriweather?” (Oh, did I forget to tell you that he had a title and everything? Sorry, I’ve been a little busy.)

  “I was coming to find you, milady.” The lilt of his Scottish ancestry made the pitter-pat in my heart add a little boom-boom to its rhythm as he answered, stopping behind my chair, and pulling it out for me.

  “And why would you be looking for me?”

  “You have to come with me to find out.” His grin widened to a full-on smile that had the butterflies in my stomach dancing to the syncopation of my heart.

  “Lead on,” I chuckled. (And yes, I know I was flirting at this point but, give me a break. It’s been a while since a man, dead or alive, made me do more than say ‘Yes, I’d like to make my sweet onion, chicken teriyaki sub a meal deal’.)

  A shot of electricity skittered up my arm, down my spine and landed where it had no business being, but felt damn good anyway, as the debonair Baron Merriweather wrapped his hand around mine and added, “It would be my pleasure.”

  True to form, we’d made it exactly five steps when the cellphone in my pocket chimed that I had a text message. Reaching for it, my mind when completely blank, when Sam pulled me to his chest, looked deep into my eyes and murmured, “No interruptions, Miss Starshine,” as his warm lips touched mine.

  Now, I’ve never been kissed by a ghost, (I usually avoid all contact because of the whole witch popsicle thing, remember?) but let me just tell you that Sampson Merriweather, Baron of Forestshire, had skills. He kissed me like I was the air he didn’t need to breathe and knew all the ways to make me purr. Best of all, no cold chills or goose bumps, except the good kind.

  I had just decided that having a ghost for a lover really wasn’t tha
t bad of an idea when the blare of ‘Do You Believe in Magic’ from none other than the horn of my beloved Pink Lady aka my Pepto-Bismol pink VW van, cut through my first passionate moment in at least a million years. (Yes, I’m exaggerating. Sheesh! How damn old do you think I am? I thought we were friends.) Reluctantly tearing my lips from Sam’s, I turned and ran out of my office to see new apocalyptic event was winging towards me.

  Throwing open the front door, I had one foot over the threshold and the other following close behind, when Sam’s arms flew around my waist, lifted me off the floor and tossed me over his shoulder, before dashing up the stairs. Raising my head, I was just in time to see the beautiful grill of my vintage VW van bust through the gorgeous brick of my house, with Vanessa the female donkey, aka hinny, at the wheel, screaming, “FESTUS! You stupid son of a horse’s ass, here’s your damn van. It needs gas and the radio’s broken.”

  Chapter Five

  “The stupid hinny broke my damn house. Because Festus is a big, stupid louse. Pink Lady looks sad. I’m ass-kicking mad. Dear Goddess, please help, and I promise to be quiet as a mouse.”

  Ignoring Auntie Dot’s mumbled, “The day you’re as quiet as a mouse is the day I stop smoking,” I let the pink bubbles and purple starbursts of my magic fill the air as my precious van was removed from my living room and brick-by-precious-brick my house was repaired.

  Walking out the front door that was mystically being painted its original-to-me, beautiful fire-engine-red, I crossed the yard and stood next to the only thing in the world I’d ever bought for myself, the Pink Lady and waited patiently until she was completely repaired. Climbing into the driver’s seat, I snapped my fingers to lock all the doors, reached forward and pushed my favorite mix CD into the stereo before cranking it up as high as it would go.

  “I so understand why Zelda has a treehouse where she goes to think and eat Twinkies,” I mumbled to myself while Quiet Riot belted out the lyrics to ‘Come on Feel the Noise’.

  Tapping the steering wheel, I conjured a box of Ho-Hos (‘Cause this fiasco called for chocolate. None of that golden cake crap for this witch.) and began to eat and think. As I saw it, I had several issues that needed my immediate attention. (I said, ‘immediate attention’. I know the actual list is longer than Santa’s Naughty List.)

  One… What was I going to do about Auntie Dot and her long-lost love, Nigel? In my heart of hearts, I believe everyone needs their happily ever after and if leaving her sailor at the altar all those years ago was keeping the old bird from crossing over then it was obviously the key to her happiness. Solution – find out if Nigel is alive or dead. (I’m betting on dead, but you never know.) Contact said sailor and reunite the happy couple.

  Two…I had to either get Festus and Vanessa together or banish that stupid hinny to the farthest hole in the deepest pit in Hell. (I was leaning towards the latter, just so ya’ know.) I had no doubt that my computer-proficient, alfalfa-sprout-eating, pain in the butt nag was in lurve with that crazy-ass female donkey, but the thought of having one more insane animal in my house was even too much for me to handle. Solution – build them a house (Or a barn or a stall, whatever they want,) on the other side of the garden. It would be far enough away that I wouldn’t be able to hear them, but close enough that I could keep an eye on them and hopefully avoid any further property damage or having to bail them out of Animal Jail. (Do they have animal jails? I’m sure they do. Duh. Where else would they put law-breaking animals?)

  Third…And this one was a doozy, I had to find a way to stay the hell away from Sam. I mean not be near, not look at, not be in the same room as, not even think about the big lug. (Not his gorgeous eyes, or the way the callouses on his fingers tickled my cheeks. Not how soft his lips were, or how he could kiss me silly. No! Absolutely none of that!)

  I have no clue when, where or why it happened, but I’m afraid it had. Somewhere between ‘Oh shit, there’s the ghost of a Scottish Baron in my house’ and “Wowsa, who knew spirits could kiss?’ I’m pretty sure I started to fall in love with a man who died almost a hundred years ago. Talk about a September-May romance. This shit is one for the records books.

  Finishing off my third Ho-Ho, I threw the crumpled wrapper of my fourth on the floor just as the songs were changing on my CD and growled, “I better not find out that Auntie Dot has been practicing her damned love spells on me.” Shoving the delicious chemical-laden, wonderfully chocolate, cream-filled treat into my mouth, I scowled at my dear aunt who was looking at me out the living room window and pointed at her, nodding slowly as I threatened, “Have you been meddling around in my love-life, old lady?” Directly into her mind.

  Frantically shaking her head, laying her hand over her heart and holding up her other hand with her second finger crossed over her index finger, she swore, “I swear on my witch’s honor that I have not used magic since the day I died…” There was a long pause during which her cheeks turned an irritatingly lovely shade of pink before she admitted, “Except to light my cigs, shoot fireballs at Wendy and whip up my Bloody Marys.” She opened her eyes wide and held up her hands in surrender. “Other than that, I promise I haven’t done anything.”

  “Uh huh,” I grumbled. “I better not find out you have, or I swear on my favorite pair of red lace Agent Provocateur panties (So sue me. I like expensive undies. It’s not a crime, ya’ know.) that’ll I shove you into that brass urn in the basement and hurtle your happy ass into the afterlife with all the power in my size fourteen, curvy-ass body, ya’ get me?”

  “Well, I never…”

  “And ya’ know that’s bullshit. There’s nothing you haven’t done, so stop right there.”

  “Harmony Jane Starshine, you will not talk to me…”

  Snap went my finger. Whoosh went my aunt. And smiling went my face. Between the four Ho-Ho’s I’d just inhaled and the pleasure of popping Dot back into her Time-Out urn, I was suddenly in a pretty damn good mood. The old bird had sworn on her honor, and that should’ve been good enough for me, but something didn’t feel right. Something was playing me like a fiddle, and I didn’t like it.

  Unlocking the doors and jumping out of the van, I brushed the crumbs off my lavender ‘Namaste Witches’ T-shirt, tightened the messy ponytail perched on top of my head and headed back to the house. Thankfully, everything was repaired and just a few red and blue sparkles, the last remnants of my magic, were left lying around.

  I could hear Festus and Vanessa having a ‘conversation’ in the donkey’s bedroom and decided not to go upstairs. I’d make my announcement about their new home later, preferably after they’d moved in and I’d installed a mule-deterrent security system in my house.

  Turning towards the living room, I took in the sight of Wendy skyping with her therapist and her Kitty Crew, who also suffered from some form or another of Feline Depression/Neurosis and immediately knew that was not the place for me either. That crazy-ass Persian was too much to handle on a good day, but since she’d decided the Zombie Apocalypse was only weeks away, she had become absolutely impossible to be around.

  Doing a one-eighty, I opened the doors to my office, crossed the threshold, shut and locked said doors behind me and made it exactly three-and-one-half steps before I was serenaded by none other than Ernesto, the soon-to-be-dinner parrot. “Lord have mercy how'd she even get them britches on with that honky tonk badonkadonk.”

  Ignoring the little turd-face, I grabbed Zelda’s grimoire off my desk, exited through the outside door and made a beeline for my garden. Zig-zagging around the flowers and swerving left than right to avoid running into the huge terracotta pots of herbs, I eventually made it to the swing Lola and Vlad had gotten me as a housewarming present when I first got here.

  Slipping off my flip-flops, I curled up on the overstuffed cushion and began looking through the ancient book. Flipping through the pages, I found spells for raising the dead, summoning the dead, exorcising evil spirits, cleansing a house, locating the dead and quieting restless spirits – all of which I
knew how to do and had my own spells for.

  Continuing to read, sure the back half of the tome had to have something more useful in it, I turned another page in search of said ‘useful information’ just as a gust of wind whipped through the garden, swirled around the swing, and flipped the old, brittle pages frantically right to a spell written in really old Latin. Mesmerized by the swirls and curls of the old-world script, I ran my fingers over the words embedded in the parchment, trying to remember the little bit of the dead language Auntie Dot had taught me about a hundred years ago.

  Coral mist and indigo bubbles filled the air while sparkling red glitter fell upon my arms, and strong sparks of bright yellow magic skittered along my veins and arteries just under my skin. A jolt of electricity, something that felt like I’d touched the wires inside a broken Christmas tree light, skated down my spine as my eyesight switched to the fluorescent green glow of my mind’s eye. (Think about it as looking through night vision goggles. Yeah. That.)

  I immediately knew I wasn’t alone from the creepy-crawly icy breath of dread that made the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Spinning like a puppet on a string, I nearly landed on my ass as I met the glaring, soulless eyes of something big and most definitely undead.

  Taking a step back as he took a step forward, I tripped over a lump of something soft and goopy, grabbed a slime-covered pole and barely stayed upright as I shook my head and yelled, “Do not touch me or I swear I’ll bounce your stinky ass back to whatever pint in Hell you climbed out of.”

  Throwing back its head and laughing aloud, the undead man (I now knew from his laugh.) clapped his hands twice in quick succession, like the lady on the Clapper commercial, making bright lights burst to life all around me. Jerking my hand off the slimy pole, (I swear it was boogers. I mean it. I’m not kidding.) I refused to look anywhere but at the man as I demanded, “Where am I and who are you?”